You Alone
by MariaClaire
Summary: What kind of a person walks out on his best friend and the girl he loves? Ron is at Shell Cottage, a few days after leaving Harry and Hermione, pondering the consequences of his actions after abandoning his friends.


You're alone. Again. But it was your choice. You could have stopped this from happening. You didn't have to leave, you could have sucked it up, found a way to make it work. They needed you, needed your help, but you walked out anyway. You walk now, pacing around the room, the room that, though larger than the tent, suffocates you in a way which the tent never did.

You should have stayed. What kind of person walks out on their friends, especially friends who need you? Need you to be there, need your help. Yeah, you're pretty low, about as low as dirt at this particular moment. Lower, even, if that's possible.

You throw yourself down on the bed and lay there. Staring at the ceiling, you replay it again, that last argument. All your reasons for leaving, which made so much sense at the time, now sound pretty stupid. Beyond stupid, in fact; you must have sounded like a spoiled brat, a baby who couldn't handle anything too difficult. Or, you cringe and sit up as another name comes to mind, a name you once thought you'd never be called: coward. Whether or not it's true isn't the point. You feel like it is.

And then, of course, you can't get their faces out of your mind. The way they looked when you said you were leaving. The shock on their faces. The anger. Worse, the hurt. And their eyes. Displaying disbelief that you would betray them like this. Green eyes wounded, but glaring at you. Brown eyes, devastated. That was the worst of all.

You look out the window and your mind wanders back to the subject consuming you, the subject which has overwhelmed you ever since you walked out into that rain and didn't look back. Ever since you heard her calling for you, calling your name, begging you to come back inside, to work things out. You ignored her. How could you have done this to them? Who walks out on their best friend just because things aren't going the way you thought they would, when that same best friend has more than once risked everything to help you? What man would walk out on the girl he claims to love and then not even turn around when she tried to call you back? Maybe it is possible to be lower than dirt, you think. If it is, then you're not a man, you're a worm.

Even the weather seems fed up with you. It's been getting progressively worse anyway, because that's what November weather does, but this past week it's seemed more terrible than normal. Outside the window now a storm is brewing, the branches of the trees beginning to thrash, the waves of the sea getting higher as lightning splits the clouds and thunder rattles the house. Of course, you can't be entirely sure whether the weather is really that awful, or if it's just that your feelings toward it are making it all the more unpleasant. And they're out there somewhere. In that miserable weather. Without you.

But what else were you supposed to do? Screw the weather! How dare it judge you? Besides, they never needed you anyway. They're smarter, they're the ones who had all the plans. Right now, they're probably cozy in the tent, having a hearty laugh behind your back, thrilled that you left, glad that you're no longer there to hold them back. And even though, in your heart, you know it's not true, you almost wish it was. Because then you could be mad at them, mad that they treated your feelings and your friendship that way. Because if that's true, then you can stop being angry only at yourself.

You slam your fist down onto the solid wood bed frame and immediately wish you hadn't. Cradling your throbbing hand, you stomp over to the window, cursing the world. The sky has turned black, the roiling clouds perfectly reflecting your own mood. You're not proud of what you did, but it was for the right reasons. Wasn't it? Yes, of course it was. You believe that. Sometimes. You have to believe that. Rain begins to splatter the window. Was this really what was best? Truly, deep down, you wanted to help your friends, but you had to think of yourself a bit, too.

And your family. Had to think of them, it was only natural. After all, what if something happened to you? Then what would they do? They need you, you're important; if not the link that holds it all together, still, a link in the family chain nevertheless. Your friends didn't understand that, couldn't understand that. And why should they? They'd never accepted or appreciated that, for most of your life, your family was all you had. And you really want to believe that your family needs you more than your friends. Because then, you're justified. Because if you let yourself think that your friends needed you more (and you know they did), then you're scum. Which is probably what your friends think about you.

But who needs them anyway? You certainly don't. Let them solve their own problems, get themselves out of their own messes. You turn away from the window, drop back down on the bed; your hand still throbs. They made their choice, you made yours. You never really needed them anyway. And that feeling, really, really deep down, telling you that you've made the wrong decision, that you'll regret what you've done for the rest of your life?

Ignore it.

Because you, you're better off alone.

Or, at least, keep telling yourself that. Even after you've stopped believing that it's true. If you ever believed it in the first place.

The weather's getting worse. You look out and wonder. Are they safe? Or are they hurt or scared? And then comes the idea you don't even want to consider because it feels as if your heart is being ripped out. You try to fight it, to keep it out, but the thought forces its way into your head.

What if they're dead? Because you weren't there, you didn't have their backs. You put your face into your hands as terror bubbles up in your chest and throat. With your eyes closed, you can see their faces clearly in your mind. Happy, laughing, a memory dredged up from another time, before you were all in this mess. Before all hell broke loose on your world.

Please, please, just let them be okay.

You press your hands harder against your eyes and their faces change. They stop laughing. The faces slacken, become blank. You see light and laughter slide away from the green eyes and your heart twists. Your best friend. Then, you look into the brown eyes, see the life within extinguished and your heart breaks. You see your future slipping into the endless, dark void. You picture them dead, their lifeless bodies, their vacant eyes, and a sob escapes your choked throat.

Oh God, what have you done?

You want to go back. It's not a question anymore, you realize as you sit there, elbows on your knees, face damp and hands wet from the drops that won't stop falling from your eyes, no matter how hard you're trying to hold them back. It was never a question, you know now, there was only ever one place in the world you wanted to be. A crappy old tent in the middle of a sodden forest would be, if not paradise, still it would be home.

Mastering yourself, you stand up and lean your forehead against the window pane. The glass feels good against your flushed face, cool and soothing, like the dampened rags your mother used to put against your face when you were ill as a child.

But you're not a child anymore. No matter how much you'd like to be one. With everything you have, you wish you could go back. But there's no way now. They'll have packed up and moved on long ago and God knows where they could be. You want to go back, but you don't know the way.

They're out there somewhere, though; you can feel it. You refuse to believe they're dead. They can't be, surely you would have heard. And now it's like there's a tiny flame in your chest, a fire which can't be extinguished. One way or another, you will get back to them. You swear it. Only the rain and the curtains hear you, but it's enough that you know.

Outside the storm is still raging. It's getting later though; the days are shorter now. The already black sky is growing darker and the world outside the window is disappearing slowly as the dark veil of night sweeps over the world. Not wanting to watch the death of the day, you pull the curtains shut.

You stretch back out on the bed. Exhaustion is beginning to creep up on you. Relenting, you allow yourself to ride the waves of fatigue, hoping that they'll drop you on a better shore, a better place. A place where you never left that tent, where you turned around when she called your name. A place where you would never have to be alone again.


End file.
